“Yes. They are optimistic that Robert need only present himself as a missing heir, one who did not realize until recently that the old duke had gone to his reward. The letters patent can be reissued to ensure the title remains in his hands.”

Was that what Robert wanted? Had anybody thought to ask him what his wishes were? But then, as Constance well knew, titles were unruly beasts, rampaging across family trees like famished dragons obedient exclusively to the terms of the documents giving them life.

“You’re wishing we had walked,” Althea said, as the walls of an old orchard came into view.

“Of course I wish we’d walked. The distance isn’t but a mile and the countryside is beautiful.”

“You cannot be trusted under a sunny sky, Con. You’ll get out your pencil and sketch pad, and neither hunger nor thirst will pluck them from your hands. You will be agog at Robert’s walled garden. He’s spent years there, and his plots are magnificent.”

Constance would have to sketch the duke in his garden to wrap her mind around that notion. She could still picture him as a younger man, gaunt and deathly pale from years indoors, his drapes always closed, the candles in his room always lit. He’d put her in mind of a hibernating wolf, except that wolves never hibernated, no matter how cold and dark the winter.

“His Grace enjoys gardening?” Constance asked.

Althea turned the horse up a long, weedy drive. “I don’t think Robert loves the flowers so much as he loves creating patterns and watching them emerge. You seem to have an easy acquaintance with him, considering he hasn’t moved in society.”

So that was what this invitation to pay a call on the Hall was about. Rothhaven had sensed family would pry, while Constance had been confident that nobody would dare allude to her youthful mistakes.

“His Grace is restful company,” Constance said, which was the absolute truth. “He doesn’t put on airs, he’s exceptionally well read, he is tolerant of human failings, and a good conversationalist.”

The gig hit a rut, tossing Constance against her sister.

“Is he, Con?” Althea said, when the horse was again trotting along. “Yours might be the minority opinion in that regard. Rothhaven can be unreasonably stubborn. Nathaniel says he’s had to be.”

Nathaniel says, Nathaniel thinks, Nathaniel, Nathaniel, Nathaniel…who did not know the half of his own brother’s past.

“Stubborn?” Constance replied. “Imagine that, a stubborn duke. I know of only six or seven others, our brother among them. Good heavens, could this façade be any more bleak?”